


Watching the Detective

by CanterburyTales



Series: After the Fall [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Investigations, Post-Reichenbach, pre-Many Happy Returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanterburyTales/pseuds/CanterburyTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson had spent more time than he would have chosen watching (and being watched by) the consulting detective. Funny he only really got the point of what Sherlock was saying when he was gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching the Detective

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Many Happy Returns", written in a tearing hurry. Merry Christmas!

He remembered it, clear as anything. The papers on his desk, the dim sunlight shafting in between the clouds, the sound of the ring. Sally's voice, professional, all emotion leeched out. "Thought you'd want to know. Word is Sherlock Holmes jumped off Barts ten minutes ago. He's dead."

He thought she was joking. Must have been shock of some sort because who would joke about something like that? But that's what he thought. He laughed, he remembered, a short sardonic laugh. "We should be so lucky, eh?"

He remembered the brief silence, then Sally's voice again, disapproval shading the words. "That's not funny. He might have been a bastard but the man's dead." That's when he believed her. He remembered the feel of the back of his chair, resisting him as he leaned back and let the receiver lie limp in his hand.

It was too damn neat, that was the thing. He wasn't on the investigation, but he got in anyway, up onto the roof of Barts.  
"Pretty clear," the SOC officer told him. "Threw the phone away, stood on the edge, jumped. Dozens of witnesses. Got a recording of the phone call to Dr Watson. Cut and dried."

Anderson looked around, not knowing what he was looking for, but knowing there must be something, something.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to a crack traced dark a few feet from the edge. The other officer joined him and squinted. "Blood trace? Probably not relevant."

Anderson looked at him with narrowed eyes. "It's not your job to decide what's relevant, it's your job to collect the evidence." He took the kit himself and took the sample. Whatever it was, it wasn't just blood. He couldn't be sure what it was, but it looked like there was other organic matter in there.

He wasn't particularly surprised when he heard that the coroner had found death by misadventure. He had heard on the grapevine that Sherlock Holmes had had powerful connections, connections that probably wanted to have everything nicely hushed up. But the question of the sample nagged at him. He managed to get hold of the file, and went through it twice before he could accept the truth. There was no mention of the sample he had taken.

He went straight to the chief, throwing the file on the table. The chief listened, then asked one question.

"How do you know there was a sample taken?"

"I was there. I took it."

"Well, you shouldn't have been." The chief leaned forward. "You're a good man, Anderson. Thorough. But this is a case best left alone. The man's dead. Let it lie."

But Anderson couldn't do that. Evidence was his god. It was his job to pull back flights of fancy, to remind the investigating officers of what they knew as opposed to what they guessed, of what traces the crime had left. The thought that the sample he had taken had been ignored itched away at him, like grit in his shoes after a walk on a beach.

He went looking for the sample. It was gone, with no trace of it in the records. He tracked down the SOCO, who angrily denied evidence tampering. Anderson ended up back with the chief, who told him in no uncertain terms where to get off.

All the blood samples were missing too. Anderson went looking for them after the dust had settled, and they were all gone. They had simply been checked for drugs and alcohol. All were clean. So where were they?

"Why the hell are you obsessing about this?" Sally had come to his flat, had sex with him and listened in silence while he outlined his theories. The wife had kicked him out. Ironic that Sherlock dead had been the last straw in their relationship and not Sally.

"Because it's all wrong. It's all textbook. Too textbook. Look..." He reached under the bed to get the file of illicit photocopies and his own notes, but Sally leaned across, touched his shoulder and shook her head. "I don't want to know. I don't care. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He was a fraud, he was found out, he killed himself. End of story."

"He wasn't a fraud." Anderson muttered this, because it was unpleasant to say, but it was the truth.

Anderson was the evidence man. Sherlock's theories were all backed up by the evidence. They were water tight. Maybe some of the private cases were fraudulent, but the Met's? All those cases where Lestrade had finally, reluctantly called in Sherlock? All those Anderson had been involved in, and all those he would stand over as being clean.

And he did, when the DPP came asking questions. Every case was reviewed. At the end the DPP report found they were all sound. There was no miscarriage of justice. "Thank God that's all over," Lestrade had said. But it wasn't over. Because now it didn't make any sense.

Sherlock was able to do what he claimed. So why would he commit fraud? If he hadn't, why had he jumped? Where had that blood (easily left behind in a crack when hurriedly mopping up) come from? There had been no sign of anyone else on the rooftop - no witness reports, no other evidence - but Anderson was sure there must have been. There had been someone else there, there had been a violent altercation with someone...and then what?

The obvious other person was Moriarty, or rather Richard Brook. Anderson did a little investigation, on evenings and weekends. But there was no sign of Brook, precious little evidence he had ever existed. He took a weekend trip to Dublin, but got nowhere. A friend of a friend was in the Irish police. "South Dublin by the accent, yeah, but there's no missing person reports. Nothing criminal either. You might track down a mate of his in a pub near Lansdowne on a rugby night, or you might stay here years and find no trace of him at all. I'd just go home if I were you. But sure, if I hear anything I'll let you know." Anderson bought his new friend drinks until closing and pretended to listen to his stories. But his mind was standing on a rooftop in London.

Then suddenly, one day over breakfast, he saw it. Some story in the paper he would never usually read, about a drug bust in Asia. It was the culmination of a long investigation breaking up a heroin production and smuggling ring, spanning Afghanistan, Pakistan and Tibet. There was just a mention, just one, of a climber called Sigerson, a Norwegian who had "assisted Interpol". Yet something about the description triggered the conviction, this was Sherlock. It was just like him. It was him.

Anderson scoured the net, dug up all the reports, found one quote, one blurry photo. He couldn't swear that it was Sherlock. But by God, it looked like him. And now it all made sense. The whole investigation of his death looked like a cover-up because it was. Sherlock was alive. He had faked his death.

Yes, it was improbable. But what was it Sherlock used to say, about eliminating the impossible?

His sample had gone because it showed someone else had been on the roof, injured or killed. Then Sherlock had somehow (but how? how?) made it appear that he had jumped. The body that had had samples taken from it, that had undergone postmortem, was not his. That was why those samples were missing. They had been tested for drugs and alcohol. But if tested for blood type, for DNA would they match Sherlock's? Anderson was prepared to bet they wouldn't.

They had buried Sherlock in a nice old graveyard and put a nice shiny tombstone over him. Anderson was convinced that the body in that grave was not Sherlock's. If he had to bet, he would guess it was Brook's. Self-defence? A simple exhumation could prove the matter beyond all doubt.

In fact the file that Anderson put on the chief's desk the next morning proved a different matter beyond all doubt. In it was proof that Anderson had been digging around in a case he had been told to leave alone, had gone looking for evidence without any justification, had gone so far as to approach unofficially police in another jurisdiction. Even if he hadn't been on his last warning, he would have been suspended.

Anderson had reached his lowest point. His file was gone. Sally was gone, tired of warning him, tired of trying to get him to see sense. His wife and kids, his job, his house, all gone. All he wanted now was a drink. He turned into the first pub he saw, sat at the bar and ordered a beer. After the third, he noticed a poster, and wondered if he had finally gone insane.

"Sherlock lives," it said.

The barman followed his eye. "Loony, innit? They meet upstairs on a Tuesday. Convinced that bloke is still alive somewhere. Lot of fuss over some fraud if you ask me."

Anderson nodded absently. He forgot all about the conversation but yet ended up in the bar the next Tuesday. He climbed the stairs slowly, scanned the people sitting there, all lost souls like him. Or so he thought until the conversation started. He heard them speak, giving evidence that Sherlock had not been a fraud, demonstrating that Sherlock had been on the side of the angels. When it was his turn, he told them about Sigerson in Tibet, first tentatively, then with conviction. As he spoke, he saw the heads nodding, the hope in their eyes.

Sherlock was not a lie. Sherlock lived. One day he would be back.

 


End file.
